


i don't gamble, but if i did i would bet on us

by fandomsandfries



Series: sleep on the floor [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, But not wincest, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Dean Winchester is So Done, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Winchester A+ parenting, Not Canon Compliant, Protective Dean Winchester, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomsandfries/pseuds/fandomsandfries
Summary: There is a hunt, an empty fridge, a silent motel room, and a summer that changes everything. Every family's story has a breaking point; this just might be the Winchesters.





	1. and i'm a long way from home

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> This is (by far) the longest piece I've ever written. Hopefully you enjoy it!  
> Just a note about the tags: This piece does include abusive behavior. It isn't incredibly graphic, and there is no blood or gore, but please use caution. I'll update every day until I finish, and all of the writing/editing is finished!
> 
> All titles come from songs by The Lumineers.
> 
> Please enjoy! Let me know in the comments if you find any mistakes or just want to chat about the fic!

June, 1997 - State Forest State Park, Colorado

Dean has been away from Sam for 9 days, 8 hours, and roughly 17 minutes. It’s the longest they have ever spent apart from each other, seemingly made even longer by the fact that Dean is three states away in some bumfuck forest with no cell reception. Needless to say, the situation is not ideal for any of them. 

It has been 8 days since Dean last heard his baby brother’s voice, and the part of him that goes warm and soft whenever Sam calls him “De” is aching embarrassingly for it. The truth is, Dean likes hunting with Caleb. It makes him feel some sort of primal satisfaction; maybe it’s the caveman inside of him that Sam brings up every time they stop at a diner that sells cherry pie. But as much as he enjoys the feel of the gun in his palm and the heady rush of adrenaline through his veins, at this point, he misses Sam so much it is a physical pain. 

Wanting Sam is not something he is accustomed to. They have always been close, both as a necessity and an indulgence. When you hop between towns without a backward glance, having a best friend that shares your toothpaste makes life a little easier. Of course, that isn’t the whole truth either, they’ve been attached at the hip since he held Sam for the first time. He remembers Pastor Jim jokingly calling Sam “Dean’s little barnacle” because he was always clinging to him one way or another. As a little boy, Sam had been shy and unwilling to talk to most anyone, preferring instead to hide behind Dean’s legs. Even as he’d gotten too tall for that, he grew out his bangs and hid behind those instead, still tending to stand just behind Dean’s shoulder. Pastor Jim calls him Dean’s shadow now, and (privately, far out of Sam’s earshot) he can’t say he minds. 

It’s strange being apart. They have always lived out of each other's pockets, sharing food, clothing, beds, sometimes Dean is even convinced they share thoughts. They might as well share some freaky telepathic bond anyway; he didn’t realize how easy it was to communicate with someone who knew him better than he knew himself until he was left with the startling loneliness of his solitary thoughts. It isn’t that Caleb doesn’t get him, because he does in that way all hunters seem to know each other. It’s just that he and Sam complete each other like an extra organ, and it turns out surviving without a vital piece of his bodily systems is pretty damn hard. 

They’re sitting beside the smoldering ashes of the fire Caleb built to cook their hot dogs to uneven perfection. Dean twists his ring around his finger, back and forth, lost in his pathetic melancholy when Caleb finally speaks up,

“You miss him huh?”

Dean startles a little, rocking the lopsided log he is perched on dangerously before settling with both boots firmly on the ground. He shrugs, tilting his head back to the sky to avoid Caleb’s dark eyes in the moonlight. 

“Come on man, don’t give me that shit. You’ve been pining after him like a lovesick pup since we got out here.” Caleb’s got this uncanny ability to sound teasing and completely serious at the same time, and it reminds Dean that this guy is a hunter too, a damned good one at that.

He sighs and maps out constellations with his eyes. He finds Cygnus fairly quickly and then tracks his eyes down to Alberio, the binary star. 

“Yeah man, I miss him like I’d miss my thumb if you lopped it off right now.” It doesn’t feel like something they should be talking about, god knows Dean’s father doesn’t believe in talking about feelings, but Caleb has always been more down to earth than John. 

“It’s good you know,” Caleb pulls out a pocket knife and starts to whittle away at a piece of bark that fell near their campsite during a recent storm. Dean raises an eyebrow before turning to stare at the sky again, taking comfort in the knowledge that the same sky is looking down on Sam as well. Caleb twists his wrist and sighs before continuing, “it’s good that you have someone to come back to. It keeps you grounded, you see? And then one day when a hunt goes wrong and you look at the blood on your hands and wonder why you bothered at all, you can think about him and remember why you do it.” He stops digging the knife in and clicks it closed, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

“I’m beat man, we’ll head out bright and early so we can get an early start back.” He disappears into his tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him without letting Dean get in a word, but he’s not sure what he would say anyway. 

He thinks about his dad, lurching from hunt to hunt in between trips to the bottom of the bottle, and Bobby, coming back to his empty house and yard full of junk. He thinks about returning from a hunt with blood-stained cheeks, seeing the look on Sam’s face before he can blink the abject horror from his eyes, and he thinks it might not be better after all. They’re finally nearing the edge of the brush the next morning when it occurs to him. 

“Caleb?” the man grunts in affirmative, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead and pressing on across the muddy ground. 

“What do you do when your someone’s hands are as red with blood as yours?” 

Caleb pauses in his treck forward and turns to stare at Dean. For a second, his face is filled with inexplicable sadness, but then he grins with all his teeth in a way that makes him look a little rabid, and tilts his head, “Well kid, I guess you’re as fucked as the rest of us.” 

It isn’t exactly comforting, but it is familiar. 

The truth is this: Life fucks you, and you fuck it right back. You keep on living, take care of your little brother, drag your drunk father to bed and hunt a Black dog in a Colorado state forest. Life goes on and so do you.

Dean has been away from Sam for 10 days, 2 hours and about 7 minutes. As they break through the tree line, Dean tilts his head up to the stars finding Polaris and its binary star, the two forever entangled.

“I’m on my way Sammy; I’m coming home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Lumineer's Long Way From Home.


	2. home at last

June 1995 - Copeland, Kansas

The eleven-hour trip passes by slow as molasses. Somehow the closer to Copeland, Kansas they get, the harder it is for Dean to handle the distance. By the time they pull to a stop outside of the rundown motel, Dean’s stomach muscles are exhausted from clenching to stem the butterflies, and he’s practically trembling with need. A nasty voice in the back of his head tells him it’s weird to be this addicted to his little brother, but Dean ignores it; they gave up on being normal somewhere around the time their father told them monsters were real. The sudden need to hold Sam and make sure he is alright is overwhelming, and he has to stop outside the door and take several deep breaths to get himself to chill the hell out. He doesn’t have his key, so he just knocks on the door and waits impatiently.

There’s some noise inside, probably Sam bitching about getting out of bed to open the door, and their father cursing, “For Christ’s sake Sam just get the damn door!” before the lock on the door finally shifts.

“Who is it?” Sam’s voice is like a balm on the open wound of missing him that sits on Dean’s chest, and his knees buckle slightly when some of the tension he was holding melts away. 

“It’s your birthday clown, who do you think it is? Open the damn door, Sam!” He thinks if he has to wait any longer he’ll burst with longing. After a second, the door slams open and Dean has to take a step back to accommodate Sam’s sudden weight when he hurls himself into Dean’s arms with a barely understandable shriek of “De!”

He adjusts him easily as his whole body sighs with relief. Sam’s got his face tucked in Dean’s neck, legs wrapped around his waist like a little spider monkey, and he’s trembling, feeling so much that he can’t help but shake with it all. It’s a compulsion Dean can relate to. He digs his face into Sam’s hair and kisses the top of his head twice. He knows it probably looks a little strange to any passerby, but he doesn’t really care; They’ll move on in a couple of days and this tiny town will fade into a mishmash of cramped and dirty rooms, just like the rest. 

Dean carries him over the threshold and sits on the couch, letting Sam curl up in his lap without taking his face from its hiding spot. Dean can feel wetness pooling, and he rubs a hand up Sam’s bony spine, rocking them back and forth while murmuring meaningless words just to let Sam hear his voice. 

“Sammy, my Sammy. You’re alright kid. I’m right here, we’re just fine.” It always amazes Dean how easy he falls into this role of caretaker. His whole life he has always felt like an outsider, except for when he was taking care of Sam. This role, he was meant to play.

He glances up and catches his father’s eye. There is something there that makes him pause. Sam has quieted down and is instead rubbing his nose into the skin of his neck as if he is a giant kitten. His nose twitches, but he squashes his involuntary response to giggle like a ten-year-old girl and instead pulls back so he can get a good look at Sam. 

His eyes are swollen from the tears, but his face seems thinner than Dean remembers it being. He strokes a thumb across his cheek and tries not to worry at the jut of his cheekbone. It’s probably nothing, after all, just the last remnants of his baby fat falling away. Sam smiles at him shakily, wrinkling his nose and leaning forward to swipe at a mud streak just under his hairline. “Ok?” His voice is quiet, and Dean closes his eyes to press their foreheads together. “Yeah kid, I’m okay.”

He glances up and catches his father’s eyes briefly before they flit away. John nods in greeting, but there is something nervous about the way he refuses to meet his eyes again. He nods back, before turning back to Sam, vowing to handle whatever it is later.

They end up ordering pizza for dinner. Dean and Caleb are exhausted, the last of the hunt adrenaline finally seeping out of their veins, and the conversation is quiet. Sam refuses to leave Dean’s lap even though John threatens to make him run laps. He finally quits just short of getting up to attempt to physically remove him (attempt is the operative word here, Dean wouldn’t have let him put a hand on Sam, but he’d found it was easier to let John work himself up and back down) when Caleb sighs and glares at him, “Come on John what’s the big deal? He’s eating, let the kid sit in his big brother’s lap if he wants to.”

The quiet is a little unnerving to Dean. Usually, Sam would be chattering away about what happened while he was gone, but he is as silent as their father, instead just nibbling at a piece of pizza and clenching a fist around Dean’s shirt like if he holds tight enough they’ll never be apart again. 

After they finish wiping pizza grease from their fingers, Dean pushes gently at Sam to get him off his lap. “I’ve gotta take a shower kid,” Sam pouts immediately, scrunching up his nose and pushing back against Dean’s hands to try and curl back into his place on his lap. He raises his eyebrow when Sam stubbornly doesn’t answer “Nuh-uh Sam, you don’t want me to stink up our bed do you?” The thought makes Sam’s nose wrinkle again, this time in disgust, and he shakes his head. Dean frowns a little at Sam's nonverbal answer, the kid has only spoken a handful of words since he got home. but he pushes himself up anyway. 

His bones creak as he steps into the shower, grateful for the lukewarm water after a week of spit baths. He scrubs a hand through his hair, wiping days worth of grime and dirt from the strands, while he considers something that has been bothering him. Between Sam’s silent clinginess and John’s careful avoidance of his eyes, it’s clear there is something they aren’t telling him. The water abruptly switches to cold and he scrambles to wash the suds from his hair. Sam is already in bed when he steps out of the bathroom, and he decides to wait until the morning. Whatever they're keeping from him can wait until he has gotten at least 12 hours of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Angela by The Lumineers.


	3. just a little white lie

June 1995 - Copeland, Kansas

He knows something is really wrong when he wakes around 9:00, comfortable for the first time in over a week. For a few moments, he lays still, letting himself listen to the sounds of Sam’s quiet inhales and exhales, until the nervous energy under his skin drives him up and out of bed.

He squints as his feet hit the floor, the only light flowing in from the open window around their fathers curled back. Turning back, he watches his little brother sleep for a few moments. He feels settled like his body can finally release all of the tension it was holding now that Sam is close enough to touch. Sam has rolled over onto his stomach to press into the warm spot Dean has vacated, curling up behind his back. Dean presses a hand to the sharp slope of his spine and feels the way it moves with his breathing. He stays like that for a little longer, just reveling in the fact that they are both safe and together before the sappiness of the moment catches up to him and he pulls away.

He shuffles over to the dilapidated fridge in the kitchenette and opens it to look for something to make for breakfast, only to blink in confusion at the empty space, the shelves only stocked with a couple of beers and a moldy onion. His mind flits to the image of Sam’s cheekbones sitting sharp under his thin skin and his jutting spine. He pushes the thought away, confused; he left Sam some money he had saved up from a job in the last town specifically to refill the fridge when he noticed they were running low before the hunt. It should’ve been enough to easily last them for two weeks, and there was even a little extra so Sam could buy himself one of those cheap bargain books. Hopefully, he checked the pantries, only to be disappointed when they were also empty.

His stomach sinks. He’s been gone for ten days, and he has a feeling something terrible has gone down here where Sam was supposed to be safe.

Sam stirs behind him, twitching agitatedly in his sleep as he realizes Dean is no longer in bed. Making his way back to the bed, he perches on the edge and rubs his palm over Sam’s shoulder blade as he wakes, hoping to calm any anxiety he’s feeling. 

“Hey little brother,” Sam blinks at him, clearly still not totally aware, but comforted nonetheless by Dean’s presence. When his older brother smiles, he lets out a high wine, clearly upset at the notion of having to get up.

“No, lemme alone!” Dean snorts at the whine in his voice, always happy to hear him act closer to his own age; Sometimes Sam acted older than he had any right to because he had seen more than any kid his age should. It gave Dean hope to know that he could still act just like the bratty twelve-year-old he was.

“Up’n at’em, kiddo. Caleb gave me some money for helping out on the hunt. I’ll take you to breakfast if you’re ready by the time the air conditioning gets going in the car.” Sam’s eyes pop open at the promise of breakfast, and he scrambles out of the bed so fast Dean has to catch him when he goes careening face-first to the ground.

Dean shuts the motel door carefully after pulling on his last clean pair of jeans, cutting off the sounds of Sam in the shower. Their father doesn’t turn to look at him, just continues to stare up at the vast Kansas sky and breathe in cigarette smoke.

“Hey dad, why are you out here?” Dean can’t help but be on edge. John’s back is bunched tight with tension, and the pile of finished cigarettes on the ground suggest he’s been out here for a while. Besides, he almost never smokes unless he’s had a bad hunt or he’s feeling guilty about something; he’s pretty sure they can both here Mary Winchester hollering up a storm about the smell in their minds. He grunts instead of answering with actual words, and Dean grits his teeth.

“Did something happen while I was gone? Did you and Sam get into a fight? You know he always gets ornery when I’m gone for a long time. He didn’t mean whatever stupid shit he said, and he’ll forgive you after a while if that’s what you are worried about.” He cuts himself off after a minute of worried rambling and waits for a response, but when John finally turns to look at him, the look on his face takes Dean’s breath away. He looks awful; In the bright sunlight of Kansas summertime, his pale skin and bulging eyes bags stand out like a werewolf in Nevada. 

“Dad,” Dean starts out but stops as John shakes his head.

When he speaks, the resignation in his voice chills Dean to his core. “I don’t think he will, Dean. I think I really fucked it up this time.” He drops the cigarette stub and rubs it out. “Are you taking him out?” He’s already walking away by the time Dean answers.

“Yeah, I figured we’d go to breakfast. There’s no food in the room.” John doesn’t turn around, just tenses his shoulders some more and grounds the cigarette under his boot heel.

“I’ll be back later.” He slides into his truck without making eye contact, and Dean’s stomach sinks straight through the cracked cement underneath his feet as it speeds off.

The door creaks open behind him, “De? I’m ready.” Sam says voice drenched in uncertainty. Dean stares down the road for a few seconds before shaking his head, letting his worry over that conversation settle with the dust from the truck. 

“Yeah kid, let’s go.”

Driving the impala feels like coming home, especially with Sam in the passenger seat. Pushing whatever is going on with Sam and their dad out of his mind, Dean lets himself revel in the familiar feel of the steering wheel under his hands. Honestly, he’s almost sad to park the car when they get to the diner, but he can practically taste the waffles and bacon, so he pats her on the hood and holds the door open for Sam.

The gray-haired woman behind the counter gestures to a booth in the corner, and they make their way over. Dean sits with his back to the wall, letting his eyes drift over the restaurant to check for any signs of danger or disturbance. When he finds none, he turns back to his little brother. Sam is staring out of the window, eyebrows pinched together, somehow looking like their father. The woman comes over and smiles at them, all teeth and soft eyes like a grandmother would.

“What can I get you boys to drink?” Sam smiles up at her, but it’s lacking his usual boyish charm.

“Just a glass of water please.” She nods, turning to Dean to find out what he wants, but he’s staring at Sam, suddenly desperate for answers after a day of people acting strangely. She moves away in response to something he has said on autopilot, and Sam turns to stare out of the window, listlessly staring into the summertime sunshine. Dean swallows, uncomfortable in the face of the impending chick-flick, but resigned to the fact that it has to happen. 

“Sam, something is going on with you and Dad, but neither of you will tell me what. You’ve gotta give me something kid. The two of you are killing me with all this tension.” Sam ducks his head, too-long hair hiding his eyes from Dean’s insistent gaze, but he isn’t giving up that easily. “I’ve been taking care of you since you were a fuckin’ baby man, and I like to think I’ve done a pretty good job-”

Sam interrupts him, jerking his head up with a familiar obstinate face he likes to call bitch face #3, “You’ve done a great job Dean, not a good job, a great one.”

Dean smiles at his earnest tone, “I’m glad you think so kid, but it’s been a joint effort. My job is to make sure you’re okay and I can only do that if you talk to me. I expect this kind of shit from Dad, but you and I have always been a team.”

Sam’s face twists up and his shoulders curl inwards. Dean feels bad for making him upset, but he needs to know what’s going on, and he refuses to sit back and do nothing when his kid is hurting. 

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you to worry. You’re always taking care of me and-” Sam trails off and twists his fingers on top of the table, sneaking a glance through his hair at Dean.

“Come on Sam, nothing you can do or not do would keep from worrying about you. Now I’ll have to kill you if you ever tell anyone, but I like taking care of you. You’re a pain in the ass, but I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I wasn’t beating up your bullies and cleaning your papercuts.”

Sam snorts, but the sound is waterlogged, and, to Dean’s dismay, Sam loses his short battle with the tears building in his eyes to let out a choked off sob. “Aw kid, come on, you don’t gotta cry.” Dean bites his lip as Sam makes himself even smaller as he continues to sniffle with a valiant (but clearly failing) attempt to stop the tears.  
A quick glance at the counter tells Dean he needs to get a handle on this situation before it spirals out of control and grandma at the counter calls the cops or something. Sliding out of his side of the booth and into Sam’s, he pulls the kid into his lap and tucks his head under his chin, rocking slowly like he used to when Sam couldn’t sleep as a baby. 

“Listen, I’ll take care of whatever it is, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on.” Sam sniffles and clenches hand around Dean’s t-shirt, a habit carried over from when he was a baby, but he stays silent.

The woman brings their glasses, water for Sam and a Coke for Dean, clearly searching for a reason to get involved.

“Have you decided what you want to eat?”

Dean glances down at Sam. He knows the kid needs to eat, so he jostles him a little to encourage an answer. Sam murmurs something indistinguishable to ears unused to his language, but Dean understands fairly easily and he smiles disarmingly at the woman to order Sam’s chocolate chip pancakes. He waits until she has turned away to squeeze Sam a little tighter and implore once more. 

“Sammy, please tell me.”

Still, he stays mostly silent throughout the meal, practically inhaling his fist 3 pancakes without uttering a word. He starts to look a little green around the gills at that point, and it doesn’t take long for Dean to grab the check and hustle them back into the safety of the Impala. It figures then, that the story doesn’t fully come out until Sam is settled in the familiar leather seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how you're liking the fic in the comments! Title is from "White Lie" by The Lumineers.


	4. i've been down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of two from Sam's perspective, so it is the first place we begin to see abusive behaviors. There is nothing graphic, but please take caution.

May 1997- Copeland, Kansas

Dean leaves him with very clear instructions: go grocery shopping and don’t fight with Dad. Sam manages neither. 

Sam can admit that he’s a little pathetic for a number of reasons, the most prominent of which is his dependence on his older brother. He’d been enrolled in AP Psychology for two months in Vermont and if nothing else, he learned that he and Dean would probably fall under the textbook section labeled codependency. If asked, Sam would say it wasn’t their fault, not really. He’d spent fourteen years bouncing from motel room to motel room, the only constants to be found in the Impala’s steady rocking and his older brother. The result of this somewhat unstable childhood was a growing strain on his relationship with his father, and the anxiety that bubbled under his skin whenever he and Dean were apart. 

Despite all of this, Sam kept quiet while Dean packed for his two-week solo hunt. It wasn’t solo, Dean kept reminding him, he’d be with Caleb the whole time. Still, he wasn’t going to be there and in his mind, if they weren’t together, they were alone. Sam forced himself not to whine about staying in fucking Copeland with their asshole father because he knew it would upset Dean, but as his departure loomed closer he found it harder and harder.

“It won’t be that long Sam, just two weeks.” 

He bites his lip at that; they both know hunts are unpredictable, but before he has a chance to call bullshit, John pipes up from where he and Caleb are watching TV in the adjacent room, 

“If you don’t call him all the time they might even finish early.” The comment makes Sam and Dean both tense as if their father is a puppet master and their spines are connected with a string. They fall silent, both stewing in their fear over the impending separation.

Caleb and Dean finally make it out of the door an hour later. The spot on Sam’s forehead where Dean kissed him goodbye burns, and the feeling of impending doom sinks into his stomach (So what if he’s a little dramatic? This could very well be the worst two weeks of his life).

The first four days are alright. Sam spends the time reading, avoiding his father, and carefully watching the dwindling food supply. He’ll have to go shopping in the morning; he ate the last of the lucky charms for dinner and the milk ran out two days ago. 

On the other side of the too-small motel room, John is growing antsier by the day. He’s never much liked staying in one place, had only tolerated it when his wife was alive, and waiting around for his eldest to return is not his idea of a good time. He gets snippier, searching out Sam just to pick fights about his weight, his latest library book, the way he stares longingly at the phone waiting for his brother to call, any and all of it. He steadfastly ignores the way Sam curls in on himself with hurt, drowning any semblance of guilt in cheap beer and watered-down whiskey. 

Dean doesn’t call, but Sam knew he wouldn’t be able to after the first couple of days. He isn’t jealous of his big brother, not really. He doesn’t like hunting, hiking, or camping, but he’s starting to think even hunting a Black Dog in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado would be better than this.

He falls asleep to the sound of his father’s angry muttering, but he wakes up to silence.  
At first, he can’t figure out what the issue is, but the pervasive feeling of wrongness pushes him out of bed. A quick glance out of the window confirms his father’s absence, but that in itself isn’t a sign of anything ominous. After all, if he had a dollar for every time he woke up to his father gone he’d be able to buy Dean Metallica tickets for his next ten birthdays. He wanders to the kitchenette, belatedly remembering the lack of food when he opens the fridge door. He’ll have to go grocery shopping first then.

He gets dressed quickly, throwing on a hand me down t-shirt and a pair of threadbare jean shorts. Sam sighs, plucking at the stretched-out collar of the shirt, and wishes for the millionth time that he would hit puberty as Dean had at his age. 

He shoves his feet into his sneakers and crosses to the coffee grinder where Dean had shoved the envelope of cash before he left. He opens it and sticks his hand in without looking, eyes on the strange stain above the bathroom door. Stilling, he wiggles his fingers and peers into it with growing disbelief; instead of touch paper, he hits only air and the film of coffee dust sitting at the bottom of the grinder. Sam stares at it for a couple of seconds, blinking at the empty canister. With a deep breath, he sorts through all of the possible reasons for the money’s disappearance. He could’ve sworn he watched Dean put it in the coffee grinder; after all, he had made sure to show Sam exactly where it was so he wouldn’t forget. So where was all of the money? 

Dread fills his stomach when he thinks of having to tell his father that he somehow lost the grocery money, and imagining the look on John’s face spurs him into action. Frantic, he begins to tear the room apart in search of the cash. He checks the beds, his duffel, every cabinet and appliance, all to no avail. In the end, the room looks like a tornado has ripped through it, and Sam is still empty-handed. His dad will be furious, but he’s turned the room inside and out, and there’s just nothing else to be done. 

Ignoring the churning of his stomach, Sam swallows a glassful of water and bends down to shove his clothes back into his bag. Cleaning the room doesn’t take as much time as Sam would like, but the sun is high in the sky by the time he finishes. The sense of dread has been replaced with the familiar gnawing of hunger, and the empty room has made him restless, so he shoves his sneakers onto his feet and slips out of the motel room for a run. 

He circles the motel a couple of times, keeping an eye out for his father’s truck, but the parking lot is still empty when the heat and his low blood sugar force him to come to a stop. Panting, he makes his way back into the room and slides into the shower. The cold water feels good on his skin after a few moments, and he wishes, not for the first time, that they had picked a motel with a pool for their extended stay in Copeland, Kansas. 

After the shower, he reads for a while to take his mind off of his growing hunger and his father’s continued absence. John Grisham’s newest book was a thriller, and Sam found himself invested in the protagonist’s story. What would it be like, Sam wonders, to disappear and leave behind all of your responsibilities?


	5. i've been defeated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the tags relate to this chapter, so please read them and be careful! Title comes from "dead sea" by The Lumineers.

May 1997- Copeland, Kansas

Night falls, and when his father fails to show up, Sam digs around in the cupboards until he unearths a stale package of crackers. He eats two, downs another glass of water, and falls into bed, only to be locked in a haze of twisted and murky dreams. They shift from one scene to the next, familiar faces flitting in and out of his mind’s eye. Dean smiles at him from across a dingy motel room, his bright green eyes flaring as he says, “It’s okay baby boy, I’m right here” before the room erupts in flames and he disappears in the smoke. He reaches for his older brother, but the intense heat of the flames pushes him back, and the motel room shifts into Bobby’s den. Voices echo all around him, and he catches snippets of conversations. He can hear Dean, but he’s too far away to make out the words, and suddenly Bobby’s voice is carrying in, incredibly loud, from the adjacent kitchen.

“They’re just kids John, let them be.” John suddenly appears in Sam’s face, his own visage twisted in a vicious snarl.

“Dean is a man, Sam is a kid. Isn’t that right Sammy?” John spits Dean’s nickname for Sam like the letters are covered in acid. “You’re just a little baby who can’t take care of himself without his big brother coming to his rescue.” His face shifts into the unnatural maw of a shtriga and Sam feels himself turning to run and run.

He wakes gasping for breath in the dark motel room. The clock on the nightstand shows that it is just after 3 am, but Sam clicks the remote to turn on the television, unable to stand the room’s silence any longer. John has yet to return, but Sam still doesn’t let himself worry. Instead, he drifts in a haze of brightly colored wallpaper and the constant hum of a laugh track. His father will be back soon, he always is. 

He falls asleep to a re-run of Full House and doesn’t dream at all.

In the morning, he runs through his workout routine on autopilot before he eats a couple of crackers and settles in front of the tv to pass the time. It’s easy to lose himself in the simple lives of people in sitcoms, and he forces himself to worry more about whether Stephanie will get a prom date than whether his father would come back any time soon or if Dean would survive the hunt. The day passes like that, and Sam forces himself to fall asleep earlier than usual when the mindless tv gets to be too repetitive. 

Waking to the empty motel room for the third time finally worries Sam. John has been gone for too long without any contact or indicator of where he might have disappeared to. He paces the small space, running his mind to figure out where his father might have gone. He doesn’t think his father would have taken a hunt without at least asking for Sam’s help researching, but with how antsy he was acting before he left, anything was possible. He considers calling Bobby in case John contacted him to ask for help, but he knows the call would only concern him, and he can’t help but think about his dream from the other night. He wants to prove that isn’t a baby. He’s a goddamn Winchester: He can handle this himself. Winchesters don’t panic, they don’t call their surrogate uncles over 3 days alone, and they certainly don’t cry for their older brothers. Sam is a man, and he’s going to act like it. 

He doesn’t call. Instead, he runs, rations the stale crackers, and drinks increasing amounts of tap water to fill his belly. The sun stretches higher into the sky, but Sam can’t shake the morning’s anxiety. The exercise leaves him feeling weak and nauseous, so he settles back onto the bed and dozes.

The sound of a slamming door sends him rocketing upwards out of sleep, frantically grappling for his gun. It’s with relief then, that Sam wilts as his eyes finally adjust and recognize the familiar silhouette in the doorway. Dusk has fallen outside of the window, and the shadows hide his father’s face. 

“Dad! I was getting really worried, where did you一” Sam cuts himself off as John stumbles away without acknowledging him, disappearing into the tiny bathroom. He stares in horrified astonishment at his clearly drunk father. Sam shoves his gun under his pillow and crosses to knock carefully on the door.

“Are you okay?” There’s a grunt from inside, and after a few more moments of silence, Sam realizes he isn’t going to get any information out of his father before morning. He stumbles back to the bed, most of his previous anxiety bleeding out and leaving exhaustion in its place. He falls asleep before his father even makes it out of the bathroom. 

When he wakes up again, it’s still dark outside, and his father is sitting at the rickety kitchen table, nursing a beer despite the time. “Dad?” Sam croaks, voice rough from sleep, as he pushes himself upward.

In the weak light of the kitchen lamp his father doesn’t turn to look when he answers, just continues to stare into the bottle like it holds the answers to all of his questions. 

“What Sam?” There is an undercurrent of something in his voice, and it sends a curl of black emotion into his abdomen. He stands and sleepily stumbles over to sit next to his father. A voice in the back of his head that sounds strangely similar to Dean tells him not to mess with his father when he is like this, but he ignores it.

“Where have you been? You disappeared and the money was gone; we’re all out of food.” Every muscle in John’s body tenses and he goes still. When he finally looks up to meet Sam’s eyes, his are full of anger. 

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, boy.” Sam’s own temper flares, but he pushes it down, deciding to heed his mental Dean’s warnings. 

“I’m not insinuating anything Dad, I’m just asking where you were because I’ve been worried and hungry for the past three days一” 

John grits his teeth, “It’s not my fault you’re a fucking baby and can’t handle three days by yourself.”

The words mirror what he said in Sam’s dream too closely, and the anger Sam had been keeping a lid on exploded.

“I can handle myself Dad, but what am I supposed to do when you disappear without a word for three days and leave me without any food?”

“I don’t know Sam, but your brother would have been able to handle it.”

Sam clenches his fists, “This isn’t about Dean, because he isn’t here! And neither were you, so where did you go, Dad? Did you find a hunt and decide you didn’t need my help? Meet a girl? Get fucking lost?”

John slams the bottle on the table and glares at Sam, “You watch your tone with me, Samuel.” 

His breath stinks of alcohol, and Sam is too furious to keep anything in any more. “Is that it Dad? You stole the money Dean left for food and went on a three-day bender? Were you too drunk to remember you had a starving kid at home?”

John lets out an indistinguishable roar of anger and surges to his feet, “I thought you weren’t a kid Sam?” He snarls the words, and they are drenched in mocking and the smell of cheap alcohol.

Sam stands too, leaning into his father’s face.

“What would mom think?”

It’s a mistake; as soon as the words leave his mouth Sam knows he should have kept his big mouth shut. John stills for a long second, and Sam should have seen the slap coming, but the truth is, he doesn’t. He crumples in hurt and surprise, stumbling over the kitchen chair and falling to the floor. After another moment of silence, heavy with unsaid apologies, John turns and storms out of the motel room, slamming the door behind him. 

He sits on the dirt-stained ground long after his father leaves. His cheek throbs, and he knows that by morning the skin will be pink. It’s the first time his father has hit him, really hit him with all of his anger and strength, and Sam tells himself it was just the alcohol. Besides, he knows better than to bring up their mother when his father is in that kind of mood, and he went and did it anyway. By the time he manages to make it to the bed, the sun is rising, and he has almost convinced himself that any of it is true. 

He fades in and out consciousness, but he does not feel rested when his father stumbles back into the room sometime the next day.

Sam’s numbness fades long enough for the anger to come surging back. The resulting screaming match sends John running back to wherever the fuck he’s been hiding the past few days. It leaves Sam cradling a bruised side (it’s likely a cracked rib, but they don’t have insurance, so there’s nothing to be done about the sharp pain) and an aching head, watching the clock with the certainty that something was going to give, one way or another. 

The next time John stumbles into the motel room, Sam is hiding in the bathroom trying not to betray his pain and fear as Dean tells him he’ll be home soon.

The room is dark when he comes out, his father asleep on the bed closest to the door. There is a gas station sandwich on the kitchen table. He stares at it before letting out a wet snort. The gesture is both too little and too late, John has made his choice. Sam lets it fall into the trash can, he’s made his too.


	6. if we don't leave this town

June 1997- Copeland, Kansas

By the time Sam stops talking, Dean's fingers are white from clutching the steering wheel. He’s practically blind with rage, and the only thing keeping him from committing first-degree murder is Sam sitting in the passenger seat. He takes a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to suppress the anger and think through his options. 

There is an envelope of cash buried at the bottom of his duffel; He had been saving it, hoping shit wouldn't hit the fan until Sam graduated high school. He’d always had this idea in the back of his mind: Sam would wave his graduation cap, and they’d drive off from fuck knows where to the college of his choice. Dean would get a job and an apartment, Sam would visit on Tuesdays and Thursdays for beer and pizza, and in ten years he’d been an uncle. He had always dreamed that one day they would be happy. He can feel that dream slipping from his fingers now. 

He starts the car, pulling out of the parking lot without a clue of where they’re going. He can feel Sam’s eyes on his temple, curious and wary, but he doesn’t have an answer for the kid’s unasked questions, so he stays quiet. 

“Dean?” When Sam reaches out, his hand is trembling. Dean takes it in his and squeezes, continuing to drive with the other.

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?” Sam pauses for a moment, considering before he nods in the corner of Dean’s eye. 

“I’d go to Sante Fe.” Dean snorts, glancing at his little brother with a raised eyebrow. 

“The fuck? Come on Sammy, you’d go to Sante Fe?” 

Sam smiles and traces over Dean’s fingers with his own. “Or Hogwarts, I guess.” Dean pulls his hand free to cuff him on the back of the head as they pull slowly out of town. “No Dean I’m serious! I’d take you with me, and you could ride horses and be a real cowboy!” He laughs, but Sam quiets and curls closer to press himself under Dean’s arm. “I’d go anywhere Dean, as long as I was with you.”

Abruptly, it feels as if someone has reached into his chest and taken hold of his heart. Dean cannot comprehend how anyone, let alone their own father, could hurt this kid. He swallows back a wave of emotion, and kisses the side of Sam’s head roughly, acquiescing to the chick-flick moment.

“I’d follow you anywhere, Sammy.”

They drive for a while, stopping in a nearby town to get ice cream and dick around. They find a bookstore on Main Street, and as Dean watches Sam run his fingers over the spine labels he can’t help but worry. The sun is sinking lower in the sky and their time is dwindling. Dean will have to make a decision soon. 

As Dean hands over the money for Sam’s paperback, he makes note of the clerk’s quirked smile. She’s curious about the two of them, most people, especially middle-aged women like this one, are. Sam bounds off to start reading after squeezing Dean tight around the middle, but he lingers near a jar of marbles. She cocks her head and tugs a sucker out of her pocket, offering it to him with a gap-toothed grin. 

“What’s eatin’ at ya, hun?” Her accent is thick, but the compassion is genuine. 

He glances over to find Sam on a beanbag in the corner. He’s curled around his book, nose tucked so deep into it he looks like he’s trying to fall in. A nasty voice in the back of Dean’s head points out the way he’s angled his side to compensate for rib pain and says “maybe he is”, but he ignores it and turns back to her. 

“Do you have kids?” He means to ask about siblings since he is obviously too young to be Sam’s father, but kid is closer to the truth anyway, and her gentle smile doesn’t fade when she nods. 

“I’ve got two. Bobby’ll be twenty in the fall, and little Jenny just finished her sophomore year.” Her voice is proud, and Dean wonders for a second if he sounds like that when he talks about Sam.

“Would you take them away if it kept them safe? Even if it meant leaving behind everything they, and you, have ever known?” She grabs his hands in her own tight grip. 

“Without question.” He nods, eyes still on Sam even as he feels her own gaze boring into his cheek, warm and earnest. 

“Sometimes you’ve gotta burn down some bridges and move on to better pastures for the people you love.” She lets go, dropping the sucker into his palm. As night falls and he ushers Sam out of the closing store, the woman at the counter winks at them and turns the backlights off with a flick of her wrist.

“You all take care now.”

Driving back into Copeland feels like an ending. Dean knows in his bones that this is where everything changes. Sam curls in on himself the closer they get to the motel, and his voice shakes even as he tells Dean about his book. John’s truck is in the parking lot when they pull in, and Dean can tell that he is sitting in the bed, nursing a bottle of whiskey under the flickering streetlight. 

Sam’s voice from the morning comes back to him, and Dean can see the image so clearly in his mind that he wants to vomit: John’s breath stinking with alcohol as he spat in his son’s face and cracked his ribs. There’s a pack of matches in the glove box, and as the Impala rolls to a stop, Dean knows in his bones that this night can only end in flames.

He turns to take Sam’s face into his own trembling palms, the decision made. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” Sam’s glances away, seeking out their father, but Dean shakes his head. “No Sam, look at me, not at him.” Dean waits until Sam is paying attention before he continues. “You’re going to into the room and pack all your stuff. Mine is still in my duffle, so you just gotta get yours, yeah?” Sam nods, but he glances toward the truck again. “Don’t worry about him. You just get our duffles, and you wait for me in the car, hear?” 

Sam shakes his head frantically. “I can’t! What if he hurts you, or一” Dean presses their foreheads together, cutting off Sam’s rambling. 

“You’ve gotta trust me, kid. Do you trust me to always take care of you?” Sam nods, eyes teary and wide, but his jaw set. 

“Okay, then. On three, ready?” Sam grits his teeth and visibly pulls himself together. 

“Thank you, Dean.” Startled, he leans back a little. 

“For what?” Sam shakes his head slowly, face twisting in a wry little smile.

“Everything.”

He opens the door and gets out, tucking his hands into his pockets and tilting his head down as he slips into the room. After a few seconds, like always, Dean follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know in the comments if you catch any mistakes! Title comes from "Sleep on the Floor" by The Lumineers.


	7. Chapter 7

June 1995- Copeland, Kansas

If this were a movie, they’d be moving in slow motion with some dramatic music in the background to build tension. Instead, everything feels like it’s moving too fast. Dean waits to approach his father until Sam disappears into the motel room, but after the door clicks shut he knows he can’t stall any longer. It’s time to finish this.

John looks up when Dean approaches. His breath stinks of Jack Daniels, and in one sudden moment rage swells up and smothers any apprehension he has been feeling. He is briefly at a loss for words; what do you say to the man whose hands taught you to ride a bike decides to use them to make your little brother bruise and bleed? 

He looks up then, bloodshot eyes crinkling in the dim lamplight. He seems surprised to see him. Perhaps he had forgotten their half-conversation earlier that day, or maybe he just thought Dean would take Sam and disappear without a word. He almost wishes he had.

“Dean?” He slurs.

“How could you?” Dean asks. Something in his voice must betray that the gig is truly up because his father’s face shuts down almost as soon as his alcohol addled brain comprehends the words. He opens his mouth to respond, but Dean isn’t particularly interested in hearing his father’s half-assed responses.

“You know what? I don’t want to hear it. Save your excuses for your drinking buddies.”

John winces, clearly upset at the accusation, but is unwilling to defend himself. Dean doesn’t waste any time beating around the bush, there is nothing he could possibly say to change his mind.

“ I told you what I would do last year that if you ever touched him again.”

This time, John speaks up as he jolts upward, back ramrod straight. “You can’t. He’s my son, you’re my son.” For a second, he almost sounds sorry. The defensive anger kicks in quickly though, and the remorse doesn’t last long.

“You’re not his father, Dean. Sam is just being dramatic because you left his side for more than 2 minutes. Anyway, I found a hunt. We’re headed to Charleston for a colony of witches.” Dean shakes his head. If he looks past how furious he is, he feels almost sorry for his father. The man has so little, and he’s managed to push away the only family he has left. Still, the fury outweighs any sympathy he may have had once he registers what John has just said. 

“I’ve raised that kid, so don’t you dare sit here and say that to my face. I’m more of a father than you ever were!”In the corner of his eye, a room light flips on, likely spurred on by his rapidly increasing volume, but he doesn’t care. He cannot believe how flippant his father is acting, even drunk off his ass, about this. 

“Dean—” He cuts John off as his internal timer lets him know Sam will be almost finished packing, unwilling to drag this out any longer than he has to.

“We’re going, Dad. Sam is bringing our bags outside and getting in the car. You are not going to talk to him, and if you actually care about us, you’ll let me drive the car out of here without a fuss.” 

John is practically trembling with fear and fury. His eyebrows are drawn together, his jaw clenched, and his hands curled into tights fists like he’s raring for a fight. For a second, Dean wants to scream and ask if he wants to hit him too, but the motel room door opens, and the last thing Sam needs is to see Dean bleed. 

Sam shuffles forward, somehow looking like he was aging by the minute, weighed down by his father’s accusations and the past few weeks, hell maybe by his whole life. His steps are heavy and measured, fists clenching where he grips the straps of the duffle bags. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eye, tracking his movements toward the car. 

“Sam!” Their father calls out, taking one wobbling step in his direction, only to be cut off as Dean steps bodily in front of him as if he can use his own arms to slice the man right out of Sam’s life. 

“Don’t talk to him,” He snaps, making his shoulders as broad as possible in order to block Sam from sight. Unfortunately, it’s too late. The footsteps behind him freeze, and a series of complicated emotions wash over his father’s face. 

“Dean…” John grunts at his voice, and Sam pauses, wary, before continuing. “Can we go now?”

“Get in the car kid, I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Dean should have known it wouldn’t be that easy though. Their father has never been one to give up easily, and as his face hardens, Dean knows he has to get Sam out of there while the bridge still has a foundation. 

There is a moment of quiet tension, and the air finally seems to flow in slow motion. Dean opens his mouth, to say what, he doesn’t know, but no sooner than he can wrap his lips around some words, does the stillness shatter. 

“Come back here, you little coward! If I had known I was raising a bitch instead of a man I would have left you in that house fifteen years ago! Come and face me like a man!” Spit is flying from his lips, his mouth is twisted in disgust, and Dean closes his eyes, terrified that this is how he will remember his father.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice is quivering now, and a lifetime of listening tells him that his little brother is a hair’s width away from bursting into tears.

“Dad—” He’s cut off almost immediately. It’s as if the whiskey has broken the levies, and every dark and angry thought his father has had is spilling out for all the world to witness.

“That’s just you to a tee, isn’t it Samuel? Dean! Dean! Help me, Dean! Dad is being mean to me! He won’t always be there to protect you from the big bad wolf. I’m trying to prepare you for the real world!” His glare shifts abruptly to Dean.

“You may disagree with my methods, but I am his father, and I will teach my son how to survive however I want to. It’s my job to protect him from the world.” 

Dean turns to glance over his shoulder at Sam, face barely visible in the ink of nighttime. His body language, however, tells Dean everything he needs to know. He twists back, letting the fight slip out of muscles. 

“It may be your job to protect him from the world, but it’s my job to protect him from you.” John practically wilts, whiskey bravado dissipating as quickly as it grew, and the tone that remains is almost sincere.

“You’re going to have to let him grow up eventually, Dean.” 

He shakes his head and glances backward. 

“You were wrong you know, he’s only fourteen.” Every step he takes away from his father feels like a revolution. This isn’t giving up, Dean decides. They’re taking back everything that’s been stolen from them. Sometimes, he thinks, you have to burn the whole village and rebuild somewhere else. 

The Impala comes to life underneath them, a comforting hum drowning out anything John is saying.

Sam sets a hand on his arm, eyes and voice wary. “Are you sure, Dean? This is a big decision. Don’t throw everything away because I’m a baby.”

Dean looks at him sharply, any and all doubts washing away with the shaking of his little brother’s voice.

“I’m sure. I’m deciding on you, okay Sammy? I’m deciding on us.” Sam nods sharply, jaw set. He squeezes Dean’s hand and smiles a little.

“On us.”

The moon hangs heavy in the midwestern sky as they drive out of the motel parking lot. Copeland isn’t even big enough to warrant a “Thanks for Visiting” sign, but they leave the memories behind at where they think the border is anyway. 

The burning is done, the time for rebuilding is upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Give me a kudos and a comment if you enjoyed it, they make my day.   
> The title comes from "Sleep on The Floor" by The Lumineers.   
> Let me know in the comments what else you want to see in this verse. I've started writing the second part, but I can't promise it will be out any time soon. Send some inspiration my way and I'll try to make it happen!  
> Thanks for reading!


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